Random Photos from the Road, v1.0 - December 2, 2006

Here are just a few photos from the road that I felt like throwing up. I'll probably be doing this in installments of a few at a time, so keep checking up whenever.

This guy had no arms. Really. He drew this picture with his teeth and then tried to sell it to us. We didn't buy it, so he thought he would up the ante by dropping a lit cigarette on the ground, picking it up with his claw, tossing it in the air and attempting to catch it in his mouth...only he didn't and the cherry exploded all over his face, burning him. Did that stop him?! No, he did it another two times before we told him to cut it out inbetween spasms of laughter and tears streaming down our faces. Homeless cripples in Georgia are AWESOME.

Some girl in Pittsburgh wanted Tucker to sign this maxi-pad instead of a book, she even brought a red Sharpie to do it with. I asked her why she didn't want him to sign it with her menstral fluid instead. She just looked at me weird and walked away. Yeah, she brought a MAXI-PAD to be signed and I'm the weirdo. I would have torn her apart, but she already lived in Pittsburgh...what can I do to her that God hasn't already done?!

While we were in Philly, Tucker thought it would be a good idea to dump the septic tank of the RV in the middle of a Denny's parking lot. At first when we unscrewed the cap, just pee came out. I was curious as to where the poopy had gone, because I definitely put a bunch of it in that toilet during our trip. That's when Tucker found the pump switch...and the poopy did flow...all over Tucker's shoes. The smell hit me like a ton of bricks; that tank should have been emptied out a week prior. Tucker and I stumbled away from the viscous liquid, gagging and drooling.

When we got back into the RV to drive it back to NYC, the stench of the pisspoop still permeated the inside of the cab. After hanging my head out the window to gag and cry some more, we realized that Tucker still had some of it on the soles of his shoes. After some Clorox Wipes action, we were good to go...but my soul still bears the scars from the Bog of Eternal Stench.

I like boobs. This girl sat next to me at the bar when we were in East Lansing. Her friend tickled her, so she decided to flail around like an autistic kid holding a Bumble Ball, knock my drink over and kick me in the jaw with the wooden heel of her "fuck me pumps". She apologized by buying me another drink and offering her well tanned and ample bosom for me to play with for the duration of our stay. Fantastique.

AHHHHHHH!!! WHITEFACE!!! At the Chicago signing, our friend Jojo showed up sporting whiteface and a blonde wig screaming, "HEY TUCKER, DO SOMETHING FUNNY!!!" I went from scared to creeped out to laughing myself out of my chair all within 15 seconds. Then I got deeply offended about his blatant disrespect for my Aryan peoples. After that we all ate fried chicken together.

This is the mirror in the bathroom of our room at the Sheraton in Madison, Wisconsin. Our friend Sharts got shitfaced, then angry about a girl that wanted to fuck him and then flaked out...and decided to scrawl his thoughts all over it with a permanent marker. It reads as follows:

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE PROCESS

Fucking cunt

Ass whore mouth

Right here...414 916 732 5610 7095

KATELYN is a fucking cunt

Die U cunt

U and

I hate them, all. Lying whores

CUNT"

The next morning when I woke up and headed to the hotel to meet up with Tucker and Sharts, I walked into the bathroom, saw this and laughed my ass off. The girl that Tucker was fucking then said, "Tucker, your friend scares me." Beautiful.

This was at our very last signing in Athens City, Ohio. We were in a bookstore doing our thing when these little kids (must have been aged 7-9) picked up Tucker's book and started reading the back of it out loud. Someone pointed out to them that the author of the book was in the store. They flipped out, ripped the flyers promoting the signing off of the display and asked Tucker to sign it, all while their mother was looking on, perusing through his book and making the pained, disgusted facial expressions that you would expect a mother to make when she discovered that her children were getting autographs from a filthy, godless man.

More to come. When? When I feel like it, mothefucker. You drive for 6,000 miles and tell me how eager you are to do anything. That's right, go back to eating your can of frosting and watching Dr. Phil tell it how it is, I'm going to drink a beer to make the shakes stop.